, searched in quarters as
divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his
party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the
bottom, I discovered what I sought.

Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured
a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse,
and deposited the latter in an old wine box-taking care so to double
the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had
to press forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with
nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were
removed, the top would fly off and the body up.

Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it
as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine
merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my
servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a barrow, at a
given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to
speak, I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their
effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.

I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
afterward a new life.

WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING

IT'S on my visiting cards sure enough (and it's them that's all o'
pink satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the
intheristhin words, "Sir Pathrick O'Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton
Row, Russell Square, Parrish o' Bloomsbury." And shud ye be wantin' to
diskiver who is the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot
tun in the houl city o' Lonon--why it's jist mesilf. And fait that same
is no wonder at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for
every inch o' the six wakes that I've been a gintleman, and left aff
wid the bogthrothing to take up wid the Barronissy, it's Pathrick that's
been living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the
graces. Och! and wouldn't it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye
cud lay your two